


He's Not You

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, M/M, post Yverdon-les-Bains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It can be said that details make the man.</p>
<p>Douglas Richardson was a man of details.</p>
<p>This was his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Not You

Douglas was a man of details.

He respected them, thought on them often. He always made a special effort to notice them when they went sorely ignored by others.

This was his downfall.

Douglas’ mind called attention to the details, highlighting them and pulling his focus away from the stubbled chin that scraped against his and the whiskey-tinged lips that captured his mouth with an intensity he forced himself to mirror.

Hands— _clumsy_ hands—fumbled with Douglas’ tie as they worked at removing it from his neck. They pulled at what should’ve been pushed, yanked on what should’ve been slid; it was as if the man had never untied a tie before. Douglas took pity on him and loosened the knot himself, whipping the fabric out from under his collar and tossing it onto the dresser. He ignored the memory of Martin’s sure hands, which could loosen, remove, and set aside a folded tie all without Douglas knowing what had happened.

The whiskey-tinged lips broke away from his mouth and moved down Douglas’ jaw. He canted his head slightly, inviting the hungry mouth to linger at his neck, feeling inwardly disappointed when the hint was missed and the man’s mouth slipped below his collar, venturing towards newly exposed skin as clumsy hands semi-competently loosed the buttons of his shirt. Douglas tugged on a fistful of hair, nudging lips, tongue, and teeth back up towards his neglected throat. He pushed out thoughts of Martin, who could tease Douglas to a pleasurable breaking point through lavish attention to his neck alone.

An expensive shoe-toting foot slipped between his legs, widening his stance, as non-wiry hips rolled against his.

Douglas pushed back suddenly, tearing his body away from the man that had been undoubtedly confirmed as _not_ Martin.

He stared at understandable confusion as the man ran his hand through short, wavy hair.

Short, wavy _red_ hair.

Douglas stepped back even farther as familiar features became more pronounced. Red hair, blue eyes; every similarity mocked Douglas’ choice in company, the details reminding him that this _wasn’t_ Martin.

The red hair parted too easily at one side, waves falling naturally over the man’s eyes, instead of being forcibly restrained in a neat, professional style with errant curls slipping out as they pleased, much to Martin’s frustration. The blue eyes were too bright, too open, hiding none of the trials Martin had gone through to achieve his lifelong dream. They were also too light; they didn’t match the hue of a cloudless, mid-morning sky over the Atlantic in March.

It was the wrong red hair, the wrong blue eyes.

The wrong man.

Douglas turned away from him and began to do up the buttons of his shirt. He moved towards the door, uncaring that his tie still sat in a pile on the dresser. He paused only when he felt a hand on his elbow, the grip tentative and far too soft.

“Douglas?” the man asked, his voice a fifth too high. “What is it?”

Douglas glanced back, feeling unkind but unconcerned with the man’s feelings.

“You’re not him.”

He slipped out of the hotel room, letting the door ease shut behind him.

Douglas made a halfhearted attempt to straighten his shirt and jacket as he stepped into the lift. He rode alone, in silence, down to the lobby.

He passed the registration desk on his way to the lounge. He moved easily through the light crowd, cutting in front of the small stage, and took a seat at the far end of the bar. He managed a polite smile when the bartender took his order and tipped the man well once he brought him his drink.

Douglas took the glass in hand and considered the caramel-colored liquid for a moment before raising the drink to his lips.

Memories, non-Martin memories, rushed his mind at the first taste of whiskey on his tongue. He recalled the years before MJN, the years he spent at Air England as a hard-boozing Sky God as the liquor ran down his throat, leaving a familiar burn as it artificially warmed his heart. He remembered why he drank; he remembered why he stopped. He ran a hand over his neck, remembering where his missing tie was, and decided to put aside the latter.

Douglas emptied the glass and set it down on the bar, tapping his fingers atop the rim for another one.

There’d be no apple juice tonight.

He was done with imitations.


End file.
